


Prep

by flyingcarpet



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2421035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcarpet/pseuds/flyingcarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haymitch learned interview strategy the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to spazzula for beta-reading.

"Good looking boy like you, you must have a girl waiting for you back home in District Twelve, am I right?" the interviewer asked.

Haymitch, like an idiot, proudly told the entire nation of Panem all about his girl. He was puffed-up and proud, knowing he had a chance at winning but without any idea what he was actually doing.

She was dead within months.

 

"I'm just happy to be able to represent District Twelve in the Games," said the first Tribute that Haymitch ever mentored, bland and unassuming. They'd gone to school together, studied mining technology, back when Haymitch actually went to school.

He died of thirst because Haymitch couldn't afford to send him water. The sponsors said, "Which one was he, again? I'm certain I don't remember." Their money went to the sexy, well-fed Career from Two, and so she won.

 

In his sixth year of mentoring, the girl tribute sobbed through her entire interview. She was fourteen. "I'm going to die in there, and I'll never get to fall in love, or be married, or have-- have--" The camera cut off before she could say _babies_ , but everyone knew. This was what the Reaping meant.

She didn't need sponsors, because twenty seconds into the Games, she stepped deliberately off her pedestal and was blown to bits. Haymitch couldn't even bring her body home.

 

So Haymitch tried to work with his tributes on the interview section. They didn't have to manage fearsome, or sexy, or even impressive. They just needed to be memorable.

"What are you good at?" he asked them. "What makes you special?"

"One time I fought twenty-three other kids to the death on television," a girl said, and Haymitch actually laughed.

"Sense of humor, good." 

With a handful of sponsors, she survived until the final ten. Then she was buried alive by a mudslide. Haymitch wondered if the game makers had gone after her deliberately, tried to get her out of the way so a more popular tribute could win. It was a mystery he'd never solve.

 

"I could _win_ this thing, old man," the boy said, and it might even have been true. He was strong, the son of the blacksmith. He knew how to fight, to kill. 

"Say that, and they'll all come after you," Haymitch said, but that kid was never going to listen, no matter what kind of advice he gave.

He lived past the cornucopia; that was something at least.

 

"Say whatever the fuck you want, it doesn't make a difference," he told them, and tried to drink enough that he'd forget their eyes.

They died anyway, and he never could forget.

 

"I want to be coached separately," the boy said, after most of the coaching had already happened, after he'd goaded and bullied and shit, even _washed_ Haymitch into giving up any wisdom he could find.

Who was coaching who, here?

"I'm going to die in that arena, I know I am," he said when they were alone. Haymitch heard this almost every year, from scared tributes facing their own terrible odds. This kid was calmer than most, but if he'd really accepted his death, he wouldn't be asking for advice.

"Don't say that in the interview," Haymitch told him. "You don't want to look weak, unless that's your strategy." It had worked for Johanna, but she was a ninety-pound girl. This kid was strong, and he had an eight in training. It'd never work.

"I don't care if I die," he said, dismissing his own life with a shake of his head. "I want to help her live."

"Then you don't understand how this whole thing works," Haymitch said, and wished he'd brought a bigger bottle. "It's every man for himself out there."

"Not this time," the boy -- Peeta -- said, stubborn as a mule. And Haymitch didn't know how he'd missed it before, because the boy's feelings were all over his face.

"You're in love with that girl," Haymitch said slowly. His stomach started to turn, and he handed the rest of the bottle to the kid. "Here. You need this more than me."

Peeta just took it and set it on the floor, out of reach. "What do I say, Haymitch? What's my best strategy? How can I help Katniss in the interview?"

And Haymitch thought about it -- really thought about it for the first time in years, maybe decades. The kid would need to be memorable, but not threatening. Not intimidating. He was good looking enough, but he was no Finnick Odair. 

He'd already tried coaching the girl, and the best she could hope for was passable. She wasn't a talker. Not like this one.

"Be charming," he said. "Give them a story. Give them something to root for."

The boy nodded, and his eyes never left Haymitch, like he was paying attention. Like he wanted to do this right. It was a goddamn novel experience.

"And Peeta--" he said. "You want to help that girl? You make her look good."


End file.
